Thin Air

by George Simpson

  The Center returned his call. They had no records on any Harold Fletcher of that serial number. Hammond hesitated. "I have the man's discharge right in front of me," he said.

  "Yes, sir. All I can think of, sir, is that certain records were destroyed in a big fire we had here a few years back and his may have been among them. Lost a lot of microfilm then, sir."

  A fire. Hammond vaguely recalled it. A lot of valuable records gone forever. "What about the originals?"

  "Well, sir, you can try BUPERS or the Manpower Center at Braintree, Maryland. But don't hold your breath."

  Hammond thanked the clerk and hung up. BUPERS was right over at the Arlington Navy Annex. He decided to walk.

  He cleared through the guardpost and went up to the enormous wing occupied by the Bureau of Naval Personnel. He asked for Retired Records and was directed to the inactive section.

  The reception room had a counter, a Wave secretary busy at a typewriter, and a Chief Petty Officer acting as clerk.

  Hammond asked the chief for the service records on Harold Fletcher.

  "Can't help you, sir," drawled the chief. "All personnel records are private and restricted to..." He stopped as Hammond produced his NIS identification card.

  "I'm here on a matter of Naval Intelligence and this request is pursuant to my duties." The phrase was stock answer number five and it deflated the chief.

  "You'll have to fill out these forms, sir." The chief produced something in triplicate and a hard white card. Hammond quickly entered the information, pausing over the card, which requested his name, Social Security or serial number, Navy classification rating, and assignment —and the same information on the person he was inquiring about. He pulled out Fletcher's discharge and completed the card.

  The chief asked him to wait and then leisurely walked through a pair of swinging doors. Hammond caught a glimpse of filing cabinets stacked ten feet high. The inner vault went on forever.

  The doors banged open and the chief returned with a thin old manila folder. He pulled a red card from it and shoved it into a pneumatic tube along with the white card Hammond had filled out, then shot them away somewhere into the building. In a smooth, practiced movement, the chief spread the folder out on the counter and slowly, deliberately, counted the papers before releasing them to Hammond.

  "What was that red card?" Hammond asked.

  "Just a follow-up on certain requests, sir. Nothing but routine. Here they are all in order. But you'll have to check 'em here. Can't let records out—NIS or no NIS, sir."

  Hammond ignored him and slowly examined the papers with the chief leaning over the counter, impatiently knocking his knuckles. Hammond reached out and clasped the chief's hands tightly together, looked into his startled eyes and said, "Listen, sweetie, you'll get them back when I'm ready to give them back. So relax."

  The chief blinked, pulled his hands away, and retreated to his desk, his dignity shattered.

  Hammond bypassed Fletcher's discharge and looked at his "Page 5." He checked the entries made by several commanding officers. Nothing indicated that Fletcher had ever served anyplace but Newport News. No mention of duty aboard any destroyer escort nor time spent at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.

  It wasn't until he turned back to Fletcher's discharge that things started to look funny. Under Terminal Date of Reserve Obligation, Fletcher's copy showed the same date as his discharge. But the original gave no date at all.

  Under Remarks, on Fletcher's copy there were none. But on the original, a single addendum was typed in: "Placed on Inactive Reserve, 4 Feb 1955."

  There was nothing to indicate he had ever been removed from that status. That meant he was still in the Reserves today.

  No wonder his records couldn't be found in St. Louis. But what were they doing in the inactive section at BUPERS? And why didn't Fletcher know about this? Hadn't he distinctly said he'd never been in the Reserves? He'd been discharged, period.

  He was mistaken. But why? And why didn't his copy match the original? Hammond thumbed through the rest of the papers, looking for the Reserve Enlistment Contract Fletcher would have to have signed....

  There it was. He checked to see if the signatures matched. They did.

  Fletcher knew. He had to know. But why didn't he remember?

  Hammond felt a crawling sensation up his back. This was more real to him than Fletcher's dream. It was a clear contradiction of facts, not some outlandish nightmare.

  Fletcher could be recalled to active duty at any time. Although unlikely, it was an open-ended obligation. And Fletcher was unaware of it. Who had put him in this vulnerable position? And why did it only appear on one set of records?

  Hammond looked up at the chief, who was studiously doodling on a pad. He tossed the folder back to him and said, "Copy everything in there and send it to me, pronto."

  The chief nodded and put the folder on the Wave's desk.

  "No, you do it!" barked Hammond. "It'll save you having to count them again."

  Hammond returned to the Pentagon, wondering if he should speak to Fletcher right away and have him take up the matter with the Board of Correction of Naval Records. He decided to find out first which destroyer escorts were stationed at Philadelphia in 1953, get a list, and present it to Fletcher. He might recognize a name or number.

  He called NAVSEACOM, the Naval Sea Assistance Command, and requested fleet disposition on all DEs assigned to Philadelphia between 1953 and 1955.

  "I'll check it for you, sir," said the clerk, "but it may take a few days."

  Hammond didn't want to stall Fletcher that long. He dialed the Watergate. Nobody answered at the apartment. He fished Fletcher's business card out of the envelope and dialed Tri-State.

  A secretary answered. "Mr. Fletcher's office."

  "Commander Nick Hammond. May I speak to Mr. Fletcher?"

  "I'm sorry, Commander. He's left for the day. May I take a message?"

  "Have him call me when he returns." Hammond left his number, then hung up, realizing he was spending too much time on a personal matter. Besides, if it weren't for Jan, he wouldn't give Harold Fletcher the time of day.

  The next two days were hectic. The matters Gault had turned over to him had become pressing problems in need of constant monitoring.

  Fortunately, the pilferage at Pearl Harbor had turned out to be a false alarm. The "stolen equipment" had been misrouted to a base in Alaska. NAVINTCOM had assigned Hammond three men to investigate the Yokosuka black-market ring, so Hammond had turned his own efforts toward the missile cruiser sabotage at Okinawa. CINCPAC had stepped in and demanded jurisdiction, but Gault had fixed that: "Piss on them. I'm not going to be told what I can investigate and what I can't," he told Hammond, and proved it by calling the admiral himself.

  CINCPAC agreed. A team would leave for Okinawa within seventy-two hours. And Gault wanted Hammond leading it: "Just to get the ball rolling, Nick. And to make sure we're calling the shots."

  Hammond had given up on hearing from either Fletcher or Jan, so he had no complaints. He was even looking forward to spending some time out of the country.

  The rest of the day he concentrated on the sabotage case. He made notes for the team briefing he was to conduct the following morning, then cleared his desk to go home. He came across Fletcher's envelope and wrote a note for himself to get someone else to follow up on it.

  Just as he was about to leave, the phone rang. It was Harold Fletcher.

  "Uh...Commander Hammond?"

  "Mr. Fletcher?"

  "Yes...uh, Commander Nicholas Hammond?"

  Fletcher sounded as if he were speaking to someone he had never met. "I'm returning your call, Commander."

  "Well, thank you, sir....I've run the background check you asked for...." He paused, waiting for a question. Instead, there was silence until Fletcher cleared his throat nervously.

  "You have?"

  "Yes, sir. Excuse me, but you do recall our lunch the other day? You and your wife and I?"

  "Lunch...
?"

  Hammond was still for a moment. The lights went out in the Pit. It was quitting time. Maybe there was someone in Fletcher's office, someone who shouldn't hear this conversation. That's why he was acting so funny—

  "Look," said Hammond, "I have the information you wanted. Can I give it to you over the phone?"

  There was a hesitant "Please do."

  "Okay...I couldn't find anything to verify your story about being stationed in Philadelphia, or assigned to any DE."

  "Yes?" Fletcher sounded confused.

  Hammond tried a stab in the dark. "Any more problems with those nightmares?"

  There was a sharp intake of breath, then a long pause. Then Fletcher said hoarsely, "What nightmares? Who am I speaking to?"

  "Commander Nick Hammond of NIS, sir. We had lunch the other day. Don't you remember?"

  "No, I don't—!"

  Hammond stayed calm. "Look," he said, "I did meet with you and Jan whether you care to admit it or not. And I did some work at your specific request. Now, there was one discrepancy in your record—"

  "I don't know what you—" Fletcher started, then paused. "Discrepancy?"

  "Did you know you're still in the Reserves?"

  "I'm what?"

  "I didn't think so. If you'd care to talk about it—"

  "Commander Hammond"—his voice sounded barely controlled—"I don't know what you're up to, but I think you better stop. Unless you're conducting an official investigation, don't go any further. I won't have my privacy invaded! Is that clear?"

  "Whatever you say, sir."

  Hammond put down the phone and sat in silence, wondering who was actually having the nightmares. He got up, turned out his light, and went home, completely baffled.

  3

  Hammond picked up a quiche from Publick House on M street and drove home. He ate in darkness by the kitchen window, watching the barge creep by, her lights illuminating the grass and trees as she passed. He finished the quiche and downed a bottle of beer, then leaned back in the dark and stared at the blank screen of his TV. He wanted to turn it on and become oblivious, a mindless zombie staring at flickering colors, but he couldn't push Harold Fletcher's tense features out of his head.

  The man was definitely a mental case. But something apart from Fletcher's antics nagged at him, something that had happened in the course of his brief investigation. He remembered stubbing his proverbial toe on it at the time, but now he could not recall precisely what it was.

  Something at the Watergate? Something on the phone? At BUPERS? What?

  Everything became jumbled in Hammond's mind, so finally he succumbed to the lure of his TV and turned it on. He blinked and flinched as the shark loomed up out of the sea and Roy Scheider leaped backward in the boat. Jaws had finally made it to television. Hammond melted into his sofa and watched the rest of the movie. But his mind was somewhere else.

  He woke up in the morning remembering exactly what it was. He'd had a nightmare of his own, a cross between Fletcher's crazy dream and the movie he'd seen on TV last night—Fletcher being gobbled by a hungry shark, blood spurting all over an invisible deck like red paint smearing unseen planking...

  Red.

  The color had caused him to remember the card that idiot chief had pulled from Fletcher's personnel file. The card had been red.

  He was standing in the hallway outside the Inactive Personnel Records Section when the chief came to work. He didn't even give the man time to get his coffee.

  "A few days ago you pulled a file for me on a man named Fletcher. There was a red card in it which you sent, somewhere in the pneumatic chute. You said it was routine. I'd like to hear more about that."

  The chief stared at him, this time careful not to betray his feelings. "It's called a flag," he said. "Very common in personnel files. They come in al} colors." He paused, but Hammond held him with a look. "They use 'em to call attention to a special routing," he continued. "It means there's somebody who has to be notified when the file is pulled."

  "What does the color red signify?"

  The chief shook his head. "I just shoot 'em up the tube, sir."

  "Is anything printed on the card?"

  "Sure. Information for the computer. The red card and the white card you filled out both go to one place, a computer on the fourth floor."

  Hammond thought a moment, then came around the counter. "Let's go back in the vault and have another look at Fletcher's file."

  "Sorry, sir. Can't allow that."

  "No? Well, I suppose I could take it up with Captain Haglan...."

  Hammond saw right away it had been worth it: taking the trouble to look up the name of the chiefs immediate superior. The chief 'moved without a word to the double doors, then paused for a last try: "Of course, you'll have to fill out another white card," he said.

  "Put it on my tab."

  They walked back into the vault and Hammond had a better look at the aisles filled with filing cabinets and rolling ladders. Dust was conspicuous by its absence. "Went on a clean-up campaign after that St. Louis fire," said the chief. "These are the only remaining files on umpteen-zillion inactive personnel. Costs too much to convert to microfilm, so we're pretty careful about..." He trailed off as they reached the F files. The chief climbed one of the ladders, opened a drawer, thumbed through the folders, and pulled one out.

  He came down the ladder in a jump. It was Fletcher's file again, but when he opened it there was no red flag. "Guess it hasn't come back from upstairs yet," ventured the chief. "Wanna check back tomorrow?"

  "No." He stared at Fletcher's file a moment and then asked, "You wouldn't remember seeing another flag like that on someone else's file recently, would you?"

  The chief closed his eyes tolerantly, then asked, "Do you know how many files we've got in this place, sir?"

  "Yes. Umpteen-zillion." Hammond paused. "Just answer the question."

  "Yes...and no. I've seen flags, yes, but on whose file, sorry."

  "Red flags?"

  "Sure. There was one last week—"

  Hammond's eyes flashed and brought the chief up short. "Those other papers I filled out," said Hammond. "You keep them here?"

  "One set."

  "Well?"

  The chief grunted angrily and led him back to the reception room. He yanked open one of his own files and started thumbing through papers. Hammond waited patiently. The chief pulled out a form copy and held it up.

  "Yup. This's the one. I remember the name. Yablonski."

  Hammond took the form and read it quickly. "This was three weeks ago. Your memory's better than you think, Chief. C.L. Yablonski, Seaman First Class, USN, Retired. Requested to see his records on twenty-seven September."

  "He was worried about something," added the chief. "That's how come I remember him so well."

  Hammond eyed him dryly. "I want to see his file."

  They went back to the Y's and the chief found it without any trouble. He popped it open and inside was a four-by-five red card: a flag. Hammond drew it out and looked at the lines typed on one side:

  9805CGN-166

  YABLONSKI, C.L.

  2194557

  Yablonski's name and serial number. The top line Hammond couldn't figure out. That had to be the routing code. "Any idea what these numbers are?" he asked the chief.

  "No, sir. But that was on the other guy's card, too. Now that I think about it, the same stuff appears on a lot of those red flags."

  "Why did Mr. Yablonski want to see his file?"

  The chief shrugged. "Don't have to give a reason. Any man who wants to see his own records just has to ask."

  Hammond nodded and looked through Yablonski's file. Immediately, he noticed a similarity to Fletcher's. Entry into service in 1951, separation in 1955. The actual dates were different but close enough. Yablonski's four years were spent piloting heavy cruisers out of the Boston Naval Base. According to these records, he had never been at Philadelphia either. Hammond wondered what had prompted Yablonski to check into hi
s service record at this time.

  Was it possible there were two men running around suffering from Naval nightmares? And how had Yablonski reacted on seeing the entry under Remarks on his Page-5 document: "Transferred to Inactive Reserve 11 May 1955"?

  "I want copies of all this." Hammond returned the folder along with the form Yablonski had filled out to examine it. The chief never saw Hammond remove the red flag and pocket it.

  "Where do I find this computer we've been talking about?" Hammond asked. "The one that gets all the flags."

  "Fourth floor. This wing. Room B-418. Central Personnel Assistance."

  "Thanks, Chief. You've been a peach. I'll send over a purple heart."

  The chief grunted, past caring.

  Hammond took the elevator up to four and located Room B-418. He was passed through a lobby into a temperature-controlled computer complex, a long room with rows of programming decks and memory retrieval banks. The guard delivered him to a young lieutenant. Hammond showed him the confiscated red flag.

  "Lieutenant, if this came through the pneumatic chute—"

  "The Hoover, sir." The lieutenant grinned helpfully.

  Hammond smiled back. "Where would it come out? Who would get it?"

  "Ensign Cokeland, sir, right over there." He pointed to a flatbed programming desk. Sitting in front of it was a little brunette given to a degree of plumpness, all of it pleasing. She smiled as Hammond introduced himself and became terribly bright and alert when he produced the red card.

  "Oh, yes, sir. We get a few of those now and then. I feed the information right into this computer."

  "What information?"

  "Everything that's on the red card and some items from the white card that has to accompany it." Hammond nodded. He produced a blank white card, which he had liberated from the chiefs supply, and filled it out for her, using Yablonski's name as the subject of his inquiry and his own as the inquirer.